


Baby Please Come Home

by UniverseOnHerShoulders



Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Angst, Episode: s08e01 Deep Breath, F/M, Gen, Missing Persons, whouffaldi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-23
Updated: 2016-07-23
Packaged: 2018-07-25 21:38:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,583
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7548112
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/UniverseOnHerShoulders/pseuds/UniverseOnHerShoulders
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Doctor had brought them carefully back to London, right after they'd left - or so he'd <em>said</em>. In fact, they're in Glasgow... and he's made a slight temporal error regarding the date of arrival. Suddenly alone and uncertain of what to do, Clara turns to a policeman for help, only to learn that she's been reported as a missing person... and the bad news doesn't end there...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Baby Please Come Home

**Author's Note:**

> This is a fic idea I've had for a while now, based on the fact that Clara literally just buggers off _in the middle of Christmas Day_ in Time of the Doctor, and when she reappears in her own time in Deep Breath, that is _not_ December weather... plus the fact her family must therefore have been worried shitless. Anyway. This got rather angsty, apologies. 
> 
> Warnings for mentioned self-harm and suicide, as well as mental health issues.
> 
> Also yes, I named this fic after a Michael Bublé song. And what. ;)

Clara wasn’t entirely sure how long she’d been sat outside the backstreet café in Glasgow. Her phone had died some time prior to the Doctor finally picking out a place he liked the look of, and so she’d sent him in with a fiver and a strict expectation of change while she perched on the wall outside, swinging her legs and enjoying the sun. It wasn’t as cold as she anticipated it being – despite them having left her time on Christmas Day – and she frowned a little in consternation as she pondered this fact, wondering why she felt as warm as she did. 

“Hey, excuse me?” she called to a passing police officer, beckoning him over. “Sorry, what date is it?” 

“February the first, lassie,” he replied in a broad Glaswegian drawl, and her eyes widened in horror at the news. “What’s th’ matter?”

“I just…” she swallowed the panic that was rising in her chest, already concocting a lie to tell both him and her family. “I’m very very late for something. Oh god. Very… urm… do you have a phone I could use?” 

“Nae, but I can take you back to… hang on a minute,” he paused, eyeing her suspiciously, and she felt suddenly apprehensive. “Ain’t you that London lassie that went missing?” 

“What… London… lassie?” Clara squeaked, praying for him to have made a mistake. “Can’t be me. I’m not missing. I’ve not been… missing… anything.” _Except five weeks of my life, apparently. Oops._  

“What’s your name?” 

“Leanne,” she lied easily, darting a worried glance towards the café and the general direction of the Doctor. “Leanne McDonald.” 

“Is that your real name?” the policeman narrowed his eyes at her. “Cos it sounds a wee bit made up. Not least cos you’re nae Scottish.” 

“I’m-” 

“Dinnae try and fake an accent, lassie, it won’t wash with me. Look, I saw you look over at that place, are ye scared of someone?” 

“N-no,” Clara stammered, trying to keep her eyes from straying back to the café. “It’s not that, it’s… complicated…” 

“Look, you really do look like this lassie from London,” the policeman took out a small handheld computer and swiped through several menus, as Clara contemplated taking the easy way out and doing a runner back to the TARDIS. She wasn’t sure she had the energy, and besides, the Doctor would only worry if she vanished. “Ach, you want me to believe this isn’t you?” 

He turned it round to show her and she looked down at the photo on the screen – a photo taken with her father on Christmas morning, in the same clothes she was wearing now, a smile plastered on her face. _Shit._  

“I… urm…” she couldn’t find the words to offer the policeman, realising that her family had been worried about her enough to contact the police, and struggling to deal with the rush of emotions that revelation brought. She felt her eyes fill with tears, and scrubbed angrily at them with the back of her hand, determined not to appear weak in front of this unknown policeman. _Stupid Doctor. Stupid TARDIS. Stupid crap navigation,_ she cursed to herself. _He is so dead when I get my hands on him._  

“What happened to ye?” the officer asked, a touch more gently. “Come on, let’s take you down the station, eh? Your family’ll be proper made up to have you back, I bet.” 

“I…” she cast a last lingering glance to the café, torn between returning to her family and waiting for the Doctor, before consenting to be lead away by the policeman. She figured it would only serve the Doctor right to find her gone – he had apparently inflicted a similar situation upon her family, and they didn’t have the benefit of having a TARDIS to locate her, so she was sure he wouldn’t worry too unduly. 

“So just to confirm for me, love, you’re Clara Oswald, yes?” the officer asked her as he opened the passenger door of his patrol car and indicated she should get in. She nodded an assent as she folded herself into the front seat in silence, watching as he got in the driver’s side and beamed at her. “I’ll radio this in, the guys at the station’ll be dead chuffed to have found ye! Everyone will, it was all on the news and the like!” 

“The… news…?” Clara stammered, looking to the officer with wide-eyed horror at the prospect. “Why?” 

“Your pa was on there, with some woman… didn’t warm to her very much, but he was proper worried, he was. Asking for you to come home. And now here you are, look at ye! Still in them clothes and all!” he beamed at her broadly, picking up his radio. “Base, this is PC Marsh, I’ve found a missing person. Bringing her back to the station to confirm identity and question.” 

“PC Marsh, confirm suspect’s identity?” 

“Clara Oswald.”

There was a pause before the response came through, suddenly a lot more formal in tone. “That lass from London?” 

“That’s the one.” 

“The hell is she doing up here?” the disembodied voice asked, and PC Marsh rolled his eyes in response. 

“Not a clue. Wanna call her family?” 

“Nae, we’ll confirm identity first. Let’s not get the poor buggers’ hopes up, eh?” 

“Roger that. See you in ten.” He put the handset down and smiled at her encouragingly as he started the engine. “Sorry, pet. They police down south’ve had a few… nutters, I guess, claiming they were you. Amnesia and the like. Fair broke your pa’s heart; I reckon – there’s some sick bastards out there. ‘Scuse my language.” 

“Mm,” Clara said absently, trying not to think about how panicked her father must have been. “I… my dad…”

“Worried senseless… looked sick as a dog on the news, he did. It was on the nationals and everything – ach, they’ll show ye when we get back to base, you’ll probably be wantin’ to see the videos before he arrives up here.” 

Clara fell silent for the remainder of the drive to the station, keeping her head down as they entered a squat 1960s building and passed through reception. PC Marsh led her through a series of gates, unlocking and re-locking them behind them, until they arrived at a desk, from which a sergeant looked at them in wonder. 

“Stone the bloody crows, it _is_ her!” she exclaimed, gaping at Clara open mouthed, before addressing her directly. “Sorry love. Gotta ask you – can ye remove your shoes, belt, and any sharp objects from your person?” 

“Umm,” Clara began uncertainly, confused by the request. “Why?” 

“We’ve got your medical records,” the woman informed her practically, and Clara turned a fiery shade of red as she slipped off her shoes and handed them over, wondering what exactly they’d _read_ in her records, but already knowing they must have discovered the thing she had never wanted anyone to know. 

“Don’t have anything sharp,” she mumbled in embarrassment, and the desk sergeant looked her up and down critically before concluding she was telling the truth and nodding.

“Go on through with PC Marsh, OK? Soon as we’ve asked ye some questions we’ll get on to your pa, and get him up here to see ye.” 

Clara nodded weakly, and the officer led her into a wood-panelled room, indicating she should take a seat on one of the uncomfortable-looking plastic chairs. She made a face in response. 

“Aye, I know they’re shite, but they’re all we’ve got, lass. Budget cuts,” he told her apologetically, before adding: “I’ve gotta leave ye now, hand ye over to the detectives. I hope everything goes OK, lass.” 

Clara nodded a little weakly, returning his smile before he left the room and a young woman entered, about Clara’s own age. 

“Hi, I’m DI Green,” she said simply, her accent more southern than PC Marsh’s, and she watched Clara as she sank into the chair opposite her. “Right. So I’ve gotta record this, that all OK with you?” 

“Yes,” Clara breathed, looking around, startled by her own sense of impending guilt – a visceral response to being in a police station, she supposed, because she hadn’t done anything wrong. “That’s fine.”

“Right,” the detective said, smiling at her a little and pressing a button on a chunky-looking device, before turning back to her. “Now, can you state your name for me please?”

“Clara Oswald.” 

“Date of birth?” 

“Twenty-third of November, 1986.” 

“And place of birth, please?” 

“Blackpool, Lancashire.” 

“That’s great, Clara. Thanks. One minute.” She paused the recording and went to the door, conferring quietly with someone in the corridor beyond, before returning to her chair and pressing play again. “There, that’s your family on the way. Now, can you tell us where you’ve been, love?” 

“I…” she paused, unsure how to continue, and opted instead to stall, giving her time to figure out a lie. “Can I have a cup of tea, please?” 

“Of course,” DI Green told her, standing again and going to the door, and Clara stayed firmly mute until a red mug of tea, dark as creosote, appeared in front of her on the table. “Now. Fill us in.” 

“I’ve just been…” she chewed her lip and took a sip of her tea, which tasted foul. Without having concocted a better lie, she went with a simplified version of the truth. “Travelling.” 

“Travelling,” the detective inspector repeated, looking unconvinced by her words. “Where?” 

“London,” Clara said vaguely, gesturing with a hand. “Just… around London.”

“And you didn’t phone your family… why?” 

“Didn’t have any signal,” she explained dully, shrugging slightly. “So I couldn’t.” _It’s not even technically a lie. They didn’t have mobiles in Victorian London, that’s not_ my _problem._  

“You didn’t have any signal in _London_?” the detective looked suspicious, and her tone hardened marginally. “Well, didn’t you see any of the news broadcasts? The newspaper adverts? Nothing?”

“No… was a bit… off grid,” Clara lied clumsily, and the woman opposite her frowned a little. “Hard to explain.” 

“Clara, did someone… did someone stop you from accessing these things?” she asked gently, looking at Clara sympathetically as she spoke. “Was that what happened? Was someone holding you against your will?”

“No! No, no, no, god no.” Clara shook her head firmly, determined to dismiss the ridiculousness of the idea. “It was just… I had other stuff going on.” 

“PC Marsh said you seemed nervous of someone in the café, by where he found you,” the detective stated simply, giving Clara a long look. “Was that the person who abducted you?” 

“ _Abducted?!_ ” Clara asked with a sense of incredulousness. “I wasn’t abducted by anyone! I just… I had a fight with someone…” 

“Ah, yes… your father told us that. Your boyfriend, am I correct? You broke up, your dad thought. We couldn’t trace him.” 

_You wouldn’t have been able to, nope, especially not since he changed his entire face and body. Or the fact you didn’t have a name._ “Yeah, we… broke up. I was upset.” 

“And you ran outside…” the detective made what was supposed to be a sympathetic face, but it looked forced. “And didn’t come back.” 

“I was _not_ abducted,” Clara repeated firmly, frowning slightly. “I just… went to see a friend, lost track of the time.” 

“Clara,” the detective’s mouth set in a hard line as she tried changing tack. “Were you doing something illegal, in London? Linked to drugs?” 

“Drugs?!” Clara yelped, biting back a laugh of surprise. “No! Why the hell… _no._ ”

“You smoked cannabis at university-”

“Who the _fuck_ told you that?!” 

“Nina Williams.” 

“Well, Nina Williams and I have a love-hate relationship. I smoked cannabis at university _once._ A grand total of once, because it made me sick as hell for about five days. So, I don’t know why you’d think I was involved in _drugs_.”

“Your behaviour on Christmas Day can only be described as… erratic. And preceding that day, in fact, there are reports of you having mood swings at the Maitland household, as mentioning – a few times – your _doctor._ The same doctor you introduced to your family. Was he your dealer? Was it prescription drugs?” 

“I _was not_ taking drugs. I _am not_ taking drugs.” Clara said more emphatically. “He’s not my dealer, he’s not _anyone’s_ dealer, he’s just a friend. There’s no drugs involved. OK?” 

“So how do you explain your extreme mood swings on Christmas Day?” 

“I was… fighting with my boyfriend,” Clara told her. _Again, not technically a lie._ “I was a bit upset. Obviously.”

“Would you argue that your mood was made worse given your depression and anxiety?”

Clara was shocked into silence. “How… how did you know about that? That was a long time ago.” she managed after a moment, then remembered the desk sergeant’s words. _Dammit_. 

“Your father brought it up. And then we went through your medical records, spoke to your counsellors…” 

“You-” 

“Have you been self-harming? Cutting yourself?” 

“What?!” Clara stuttered, her right hand instinctively reaching to cover her left forearm in a way she knew would only fuel the detective’s suspicions. “No! Of course not!” 

“You have a history of-” 

“Yeah, a _history._ From when my mother died, when I was eighteen. Not now; not recently; not for ten bloody years. I got over that, and I don’t want to bring it up again. Not ever. Please.” 

“Clara, we have to check…”

“I _know_. But just… don’t. _Please_. Take my word for it.” 

“But your dad-” 

“Oh, for the love of fuck, _please_ tell me you didn’t tell my dad.” 

The detective inspector gave Clara a solemn look. “In light of the evidence offered by your medical records, we were obligated to warn him that there was a possibility you may have committed suicide.” 

“Fuck,” Clara mumbled, putting her hands to her temples and closing her eyes, knowing what that nugget of information would have done to him. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.” She’d never intended to worry him like this, she’d never intended on disappearing or him finding out any of her past. Only then the Doctor had fucked up, and scared her dad, who probably thought he’d lost her like he’d lost her mother, and _oh hell, I am going to kill that fucking Time Lord._  

“Your dad’s on his way to pick you up, Clara,” the detective said softly. “He’s overjoyed. All your family is.” 

_Probably not Linda. She was probably hoping I’d snuffed it,_ Clara thought to herself sourly. “Oh.” She said aloud. “Urm, the officer who brought me in… he said… I could see the videos? Of my dad, talking on the news?” 

“Why would you want to see those? You’ve been found now, everything is fine.” 

“Oh, I don’t know?” Clara snapped. “So I know what I’m dealing with, so I can see how badly I fucked up?” 

“So you admit you did something wrong during your disappearance?” DI Marsh probed, and Clara scowled at her. “What was it?” 

“I didn’t _do_ anything!” Clara protested with exasperation. “I didn’t mean… ugh.” 

“You can tell us, Clara. We want to help you.” 

“What, so if I admit to having, I don’t know, smuggled five kilos of heroin through Heathrow, you wouldn’t do anything because you’d be so _relieved_ I wasn’t dead?” 

“So you admit to dr-” 

“ _That was hypothetical_ ,” Clara snarled. “I was not abducted. I did not do any drugs. Fuck, I didn’t prostitute myself, if that’s your next question. I did not self-harm. I was staying with some friends, off-grid, and I didn’t know I was supposedly missing. Please can I watch the bloody videos?” 

The detective sniffed in irritation. “Fine,” she capitulated, fetching an iPad and flicking through files on it until she came to the one she wanted. Placing it on the table beside Clara’s mug of tea, she pressed play unwillingly. 

Clara recognised the set-up from having seen it on the news in the past: a long table, backed by a pattern of police logos and phone numbers. A grim-faced officer was sat in the middle, holding a piece of paper and looking sombre. Beside him, Clara’s father, thin faced, badly-shaven, eyes haunted and empty looking. 

“Oh dad,” she breathed, before anyone onscreen had even said anything, feeling her heart break. “Oh, god, dad…” 

“On the twenty-fifth of December 2013, Clara Oswald was last seen leaving her block of flats in Shoreditch, London, at approximately 5:15pm,” the officer began solemnly. “Since then, she has failed to contact her family or friends, who are incredibly worried about her wellbeing, and seek her safe return to them. Thus we ask the public to keep an eye out for anyone matching the following description. At the time of her disappearance, Clara was wearing a black cardigan, white shirt and a red tartan skirt, with black boots and tights. She is five foot one, with shoulder length dark brown hair. It is believed she may be with her boyfriend, who is believed to be around six foot, with floppy brown hair. Clara has a history of mental health problems, so it is imperative that we find her and return her to her family as soon as possible. If anyone has any information about her, her boyfriend, or her whereabouts, please contact the Metropolitan Police on 101, or go to your local police station. I’ll now hand you over to Clara’s father, who would like to say a few words.” 

“Clara,” was all that Dave managed before his voice broke, and Clara noticed Linda for the first time, sat beside her father with her arm around him dutifully. “Clara, love, if you’re out there, please, baby… please come home. That’s all we ask of you. We don’t care what’s happened, if you’ve done something bad, or if you’ve hurt yourself, we just want you to come home, darling.” He began to cry, silently, and Clara felt her heart break as she watched him. “Please, love. We won’t judge you, we won’t let anything bad happen to you ever again, we just want you to come home, to come back to us, so that we can look after you.”

The video cut out, and Clara looked up at the officer in shock. “I didn’t… I… how many people saw that?” 

“About four million,” the detective informed her coolly, picking up the iPad and locking it. “It was shown on BBC News at Six.” 

“Oh.” _Shit. Shit, shit, shit. Four million people… including work. Four million people, including everyone I know. Four million people knowing my darkest little secret, and thinking I’m dead, and waiting for me to become the next statistic._

“Yeah, _oh_. Any confessions to make, Clara?” 

“No!” 

“Fine. Your family will be here presently.” The detective rose from her chair, ending the recording on the table and leaving Clara alone with her thoughts. 

Placing her head in her hands, she began to cry softly. She’d only wanted to help the Doctor on Trenzalore, to keep him from being alone as he died as per Tasha’s request. She wasn’t to know that he’d end up regenerating, that they’d end up crashing in Victorian London, or that she’d end up arriving home five weeks after she left, having sparked a national search for her. That hadn’t ever been on the agenda when she’d left on Christmas Day. But now she’d scared the shit out of her dad, and four million people knew about things she’d wanted to keep private, and that was not even to mention the fact that the police had shown her dad her medical records, and he’d be beating himself up about her past actions. If she knew one thing in that moment, it was that she was going to kill the Doctor the next time she saw him. 

“Clara?” came a familiar Scottish voice, and the door opened and there he was – right there, casual as you like, grinning like he’d done something to be proud of. The Time Lord supreme himself – lord of time and yet unable to return her anywhere near where or when she’d left, unable to understand the gravity of the situation before him. He winked at her as he entered the room, one hand in his jacket pocket, and as he spoke she heard the unmistakeable hum of the sonic screwdriver and knew with certainty that the camera in the room would have just shorted out. “I’m Detective Chief Inspector John Smith.” 

“No,” she said coldly, holding up one finger warningly. “Don’t look so pleased with yourself. Don’t look like you’ve done something good by coming in here to save me, or anything along those lines.” 

“But… I _did_ come in here to save you.” 

“I don’t give a shit,” she told him icily, her words clipped. “I couldn’t give less of a shit. You brought me back five weeks late.” 

“Five weeks late for what?” 

“Five weeks _after I left._ ”

“Oh, is that all?” he asked, and he actually had the nerve to chuckle, apparently unaware of her impending fury. “I brought Rose back six months late, her family went mental.” 

“ _My_ family went mental,” Clara snarled, standing up and crossing the room to jab him in the chest. “My family lost their bloody minds after I went missing on Christmas Day. My dad thought I was dead. He went on national TV and had a breakdown and the police told him lots of things I _really_ didn’t want him to know about, which also then got revealed on national television, and now everyone I know probably thinks I’m some kind of headcase, and my family probably hate me. So frankly, you can get lost, Doctor. I don’t care.” 

“But Clara-” 

“Get lost!” she screamed, starting to cry again as the afternoon’s events caught up with her. “Go on! Get back in your bloody TARDIS and clear off, ok? I don’t want you here. I don’t want your help. I don’t want to see you.”

“Clara,” he said again, more softly, holding up his hands in a placating manner. “Clara, I’m sorry. I didn’t realise...” 

“I don’t give a shit,” she muttered bitterly, wiping her eyes. “You’re not _my_ Doctor. _My_ Doctor wouldn’t make this kind of mistake.” 

“He would’ve, because he did,” the Doctor assured her sadly, sighing a little before he continued. “I thought we’d had this talk, Clara. _He’s_ me. _I’m_ him.” 

“And guess what, _all_ of you fucked up. Ten points to you.” 

“Can you please stop swearing?” 

“Fuck off.” 

“That’d be a no, then,” he sighed. “Clara, really… I couldn’t _be_ sorrier. I didn’t know I’d messed up, if I had I would’ve backed the TARDIS up a bit… I would’ve tried to rectify things, so your family would’ve been OK.” 

“Well, you can’t, and my dad is on his way here now, so I’d suggest you leave, before I decide that actually, maybe I _was_ abducted. By a _giant space moron._ ” 

“Rude,” the Doctor said, and when she looked at him she could see the sting her words had had on him. Her felt her anger diffuse slightly. “I didn’t… Clara, I’m sorry.” 

“I know,” she said with resignation, realising abruptly that it wasn’t his fault, and that being angry wasn’t going to solve anything. “I’m just… I’m still annoyed at you, OK? But there’s nothing we can do now to change things, you idiot. So, I’d suggest meeting me back at mine in London in a few hours. Ideally _with_ coffee, because this tea is undrinkable, and I need caffeine if I’ve got to deal with people wailing and hugging me.” 

He nodded contritely. “Clara?” he asked shyly, as he turned to leave. “Did you mean it? About me not being your Doctor? Because I thought…” 

“You _are_ my Doctor,” she clarified, smiling at him a little. “I know that, sorry. It’s just going to take some getting used to.” 

He nodded, just as DI Green reappeared in the room, scowling mightily. “The CCTV camera in here has gone down, DCI Smith.” 

“Well, I’d suggest you fix it then,” the Doctor said with authority, striding from the room and tipping Clara a wink as he did so. 

She sighed and leant back in her chair, resigned to awaiting her family, relieved that at least that when she returned to London, she would have someone to talk to who hadn’t spent five weeks thinking her to be dead.

 

* * *

 

It felt like many, many hours later that the door of the room opened once more and her father stepped inside, his eyes alighting on Clara and filling with instant, warm relief; his knees almost buckling as he realised that it was really her and that she was safe and well. 

“Dad,” she exclaimed softly, leaping from her chair and crossing the room to him, hugging him as tight as she was able and noting, guiltily, his thinness, the scratch of his beard, and the way he clung to her as if he’d never let go again. “Oh god, dad, I’m so sorry…” 

“Clara,” he mumbled into her hair, beginning to cry with happiness, his hands resting in her hair as he wept unashamedly. “Oh, my Clara, my love. You’re OK… you _are_ OK?”

“I’m fine, dad, I’m honestly fine,” she assured him, sniffing a little against his chest and nuzzling into him. “Dad, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, about everything…” 

“Don’t apologise,” he told her softly, holding onto her and stroking her back reassuringly. “You’re back. That’s enough.” 

“Well,” Linda said, from her place in the doorway, her voice snide as she watched the reunion between father and daughter. “I for one would like to know where she’s been.” 

“Leave it, Linda,” Dave said wearily, not letting go of Clara but looking over to his wife and offering her a non-verbal warning. “Please, not now.” 

“I was just travelling,” Clara answered honestly, scowling over her father’s shoulder at her stepmother. “That’s all. Nothing bad, nothing weird. I was just travelling.” 

“What about…”

“Linda,” Dave warned again, pulling away from his daughter fractionally and shooting her a dark look. “Don’t bring that up, love. Come on, be nice.” 

“Bring what up?” Clara asked, and Linda smirked at her slightly. 

“That dodgy boyfriend of yours.” 

“Oh,” Clara said with a small shrug. “It’s fine… we broke up, and it was all a bit complicated, dad, but it’s fine now. I was just a bit upset about it so I took off for a while. Like I said, nothing weird.” 

“You’re not…” Dave refused to meet her gaze as he stumbled awkwardly over the words. “ _Ill_?” 

“No!” Clara assured him immediately, looking up at him. “No, dad, no… I haven’t been since… well, you know. Since mum.” 

“See, Linda?” Clara’s grandmother said, as she entered the room with an eye roll. “I told you – it’d all be a big misunderstanding, because she was upset over that strange bloke.” 

“Gran,” Clara said thickly, hugging the old lady tightly. “Oh god, Gran, I missed you.” 

“We missed you too, love,” she replied, chucking her granddaughter under the chin and beaming at her. “Now, how about we get you out of this rotten police station and take you home, eh? You must feel like a criminal, being stuck in here.” 

“Honestly, that would be great,” Clara confessed with a contented sigh. “Really, really great.”

“Well then,” her dad said, taking her by the hand tightly, as though afraid she might disappear again. “Let’s go and see what we can do.”


End file.
